


Forever the Name on Your Lips

by BabySnoopy



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 20:24:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabySnoopy/pseuds/BabySnoopy
Summary: when he's much too sure you are his soulmate but saying his real name could either prove he's right or kill him





	Forever the Name on Your Lips

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr my dudes: skydivingstars.tumblr.com

Ten questions but they weren’t allowed to be about you. Or him. That was the one and only rule and you didn’t argue with it. It’s become some sort of ritual to see him at the same place, same time every week to play this little game now but you were just happy you always had an excuse to see him.

CB97′s codename is a little different, in comparison to all your other friends. From past experience, the kids that had numbers in their codenames were often the ones that occupied the seats at the back of the class and jeered at the teachers with a disrespect you couldn’t relate to (a very obnoxious J.One coming to mind at that). So when the blonde boy with a grin plastered permanently across his face walked into the classroom and is introduced by your teacher as a transfer student, it was an automatic reflex for you to decide it would be best to avoid him. You wouldn’t deny the fact that he was cute but that became an even more compelling reason to stay away.

However, avoiding the new kid proves to be more difficult than you thought because CB97 approaches you in the cafeteria on that very first day, perhaps interpreting your eating alone as an invite for him to keep you company. Your introduction to him was stiff and you stared him down coldly, hoping he’d be uncomfortable enough to want to leave but instead he asks you, “wanna play ten questions?”

You’re baffled at the sudden request. “Just... asking me ten questions?”

“Yeah, and you can ask me ten questions back!”

He sounds excited and you wondered if making friends was as easy as he made it out to be. “Depends. Are you going to ask me for my real name?”

“Of course not,” he shakes his head furiously, the curls in his hair bouncing off his head slightly. “We just met. Ten questions, but we can’t ask anything about each other?”

You ponder over the offer for a moment, staring at him with your chin resting in your palm. There’s something so innocent in his voice and something well-mannered in his intentions. You suppose it was harmless.

“Okay.”

* * *

 

Playing ten questions with CB97 proves to be one of the most life-changing decisions you’ve ever made, as far as your adolescent mind can tell. In order to respect the one and only rule, it ends up becoming a game of random trivia in which it was a fierce competition of who you could answer the questions most intelligibly. Topics ranged from marine biology to random details of a comic universe, and you find yourself clutching your stomach, pained from laughter whenever you were with him.

The first time playing the game catches you off guard was the one Wednesday night spent on your apartment’s rooftop (it is after this did CB97 declare Wednesday nights to be the official ten questions night).

You went first, hitting him with a topic neither of you have covered before. “What’s the name of Pluto’s biggest moon?”

He blanks out for a minute, staring incredulously at you and then shifting his gaze up at the stars, squinting ahead like he could see past the earth’s atmosphere and find the answers written somewhere in the infinite darkness. After a couple more minutes of silent staring into space and no such luck, he sighs defeatedly.

“That’s unfair, we’ve never done space related questions before.”

Your chuckle is light as the night breeze is, throwing him a can of soda from the cool box you’ve propped your feet up on. 

“Well, the only rule is that it can’t be a question about you,” you remind him.

“My turn.” Both of you pop open the tab together, hearing the collective sound of the soda fizz. “Do soulmates exist?”

The question makes you cease all movement, your arm pausing in the air with the soda can just inches away from your lips. Maybe where he was from, soulmates were not so much a topic of taboo as where you’d grown up. Had you ever said those words as a kid, an adult was surely going to come around to tell you off. “Stop muttering nonsense,” they would say.

“No, it’s a myth,” you say easily, regaining composure and resuming the sip you meant to take from your soda. You don’t elaborate on your answer because everyone knew how it went; it was the staple bedtime story for kids (and you had once thought it was the most beautiful tale you’ve ever heard.) 

“The part about how your soulmate is the only one who can say your real name, or the part about how we don’t use our real names anymore because it can be used against us?” CB97 asks, leaning forward to get a better gage at your expression. 

You shrug, “all of it.”

It was crazy to think that such a thing could exist, for how could such cruelty be put in place that if anyone but your soulmate were to say your real name, you would die? You’re hoping that you just missed the playfulness in his voice, hoping that the sheer curiosity of his question was not because he actually wanted to know (it’d be over for you both if there’s a governmental spy hanging around).

But unfortunately for you, reading people was like second nature and you could see exactly what he was thinking from the reflection of the moon in his pupils. He’s thinking something that you had once thought as well, a thought you’ve had to bury because you almost got in too much trouble for it. That what if using these codenames weren’t actually for governmental security measures? Just like his question, what if these soulmates actually did exist?

“I know I’m breaking our one rule,” he says now. “But do you really believe that though?”

Your face grows heated and your heart begins to thump loud, the way it does when you’re sitting quiet in a classroom watching the teacher probe the students for the right answer (one that you actually knew but were too shy to say). You don’t want to press into the subject, afraid that his eagerness would rub off on you and somehow convince you to discard all of your own personal rules. It is only then did you realise how much he meant to you, how easy you might just pack your things to go with him if he’d asked.

But you were also really good at keeping face, contorting your expression into the facial equivalent of a scoff. “Come on, we’re big kids now. We can’t believe in that stuff.”

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for ten questions about random trivia to turn into ten questions about each other. It was unavoidable, you suppose, as there were only so many random facts about the world you could keep up with. It starts as simple as it could get; his favourite colour.

“I’d never guess that the guy who wears all black every single day would have a favourite colour from the rainbow spectrum.”

He brings his palm behind his head shyly, “well, if you’re going to tell me  _your_  favourite colour is black, I’d consider changing my mind.”

You don’t think CB97 realises it, but whenever he flirts, even when they’re just subconscious offhanded comments, his ears turn a very affectionate shade of pink. You’ve noticed for weeks now but you’re not ready to let him know just yet, entertaining your selfishness in wanting to keep that secret to yourself for now.

Eventually, the nights you spend with him extend those of questions night and you find yourself falling asleep better in his bed than your own. Lazy mornings are spent tangled in his sheets, usually with a limp arm splayed over your waist and your fingers mindlessly brushing over his brows. He hums at your touch, eyes still closed even when you knew he was very much awake.

Ever since that one time he’s asked about soulmates, it comes as a surprise to you when he doesn’t bring it up again. Instead, the subject matter intrudes in  _your_  own thinking and you’re unable to shake the feeling that something about the tale was very real. God forbid the law finds out, but you had incognito windows opened for your research and you even made secretive trips to the library’s mythology section for further reference. But nothing in the words you read could ever tell you what you really wanted to hear (you tell yourself you need further evidence when in actuality you’ve already made up your mind).

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” you say. Your morning voice is still a little groggy but you’ve shaken off all means of sleepiness. “Do  _you_ believe in soulmates?” You poke his cheek at the same time but he reacts immediately after hearing the word ‘soulmates’, his eyes snapping open and his entire body moving to sit up straight in bed. 

“W-why? Why all of a sudden?” His expression is a little fearful, disoriented even, looking around his room like he’d just been caught red-handed for something. Then his eyes are on you, replaying the question he let hang in the air and he’s even more confused, wondering why you brought it up so easily when you were so quick to shut it down the last time.

“I don’t know, I’ve just been thinking about it.” You move to prop yourself up on your own elbows and sit up straight to face him. “It kinda sucks that you can’t really test out the theory without...”

You voice trails off but you both know what you were implying. Alas, curiosity really will kill the cat because solution poses to be simple; he says your real name and either you live and know he’s your soulmate, or you die and that’s that. But you didn’t really mind death though, you were much more concerned about how your heart would break (would you even have a heart in the afterlife?) if he knew he was the cause of it. 

But you’re completely oblivious to the fact that CB97 is taking all the thinking routes opposite from you. There is an abnormal amount of certainty coursing through his veins. This was an absolute certainty that you would be the one. Believing in soulmates for him was a given. His parents did, his grandparents did, his entire family did (quietly, so the government didn’t find out) and it gives him the courage to do what he does next.

Hurriedly, he twists around behind him to look through his bedside drawer. It doesn’t take him long to pull out a small notepad, taking out the pen that was slipped through the spirals. He jots something down within a quick couple seconds before ripping the single sheet off of the pad.

Careful and cautious, he eyes you, forbidding your gaze to turn anywhere else but at him. “The rule is if you say it, right?”

“Say what?” You blink, a little distracted by how the sunrise gleamed behind him, outlining his figure with the glow of a halo. Then you anchor yourself back to your position, sitting cross-legged on the bed in front of him, figuring out why he had ripped out the piece of paper. “Please don’t tell me you have your real name on that paper.”

His smile turns mischievous but it’s not the kind he pulls when he’s about to tease you; it is the kind that naturally graces his lips when he knows something that you don’t. Even to this very second, his certainty is unwavering. “I want to tell you -  _no,”_ he corrects himself, “I’ve  _been_  wanting to tell you.”

Refusing to go along with him, you reach out and cover his fist with your palm, the fist that held the piece of paper. You push it gently back towards him, hoping that he understood that you didn’t want this. But the softness of his skin at first touch suddenly makes you think of all the times you’ve held his hand, and of all the times you’ve thought that they perfectly intertwined with yours.

He doesn’t seem to resist your refusal, letting you push his fist away from you. But something within you feels conflicted, like what you were doing now didn’t align with any means of logic you knew. Your brain is telling you to be more firm in your grasp but your gut feeling tells you otherwise, and you find yourself letting go of his hand.

Before you can retract your hand back in your lap, he holds onto your wrist, slowly prying your closed fingers open so he can place the piece of paper into your palm. When he moves his hand away, letting it hover slightly on your knee, you take the deepest breath you could muster before looking down.

 _Chan_.

* * *

 

This was worse than having a song stuck in your head all day. Much, much worse than a seemingly endless round of hiccups. His name, his  _real_ name, echoes deep in the abyss of your mind, less like a broken record player and much more like your favourite song left on repeat. It is tattooed on the insides of your skull and it is the name you almost always want to whisper when he kisses your neck. 

Four letters have never looked so beautiful to you; four letters that held you and touched you and treated you like every expanse of your existence was a separate journey into the hidden pathways of your own secret universe.

 _Chan._ You can’t even bring yourself to call him by his codename anymore because it seemed like a childish, weak substitute in comparison to what he was really called. Not once has he ever warned you against using his real name and not once has he ever appeared concerned that he handed you such power over him. That was the sort of trust he had in you and you still haven’t decided whether it was a privilege or a burden.

You’ve never said it though, you treated his name so delicately like it might shatter if you dropped the glass casing. There are always times that you want to say it, but knowing what it might do to him always stops you. But as bold as you knew Chan to be, you would never have expected for him to ask you to do it.

“I know it scares you, but I want you to say it.” He’s sitting up on the kitchen counter, watching you slice the carrots but the weight of his words are too much for you to just brush off. You stop what you’re doing, putting the knife down and look up at him.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“But you can,” he jumps off from the counter, pulling you away from the cutting board to face him. “Trust me, it’s me.” He cups your face now. “It has to be.”

Where all this confidence came from still remained a secret to you. But you didn’t really have the urge to pry. To you, the gift of his real name was enough for you to know what this relationship meant for him. You didn’t really mind at this point if he was your soulmate or not. But now he has both hands gripping your arms, just below your shoulders, eyes boring into you to make sure you knew how serious he was.

“You do know that if I’m not the one you think I am, you’re gonna die.”

He nods fervently as though you just asked him if he wanted some ice-cream. How was he not afraid? The creases of his eyes have bunched up and you were looking into the two most earnest crescent moons staring back at you with so much infatuation that it spoils you to your bones. 

You place your hands onto his chest and lean up to kiss him lightly on the nose. “Maybe next time,” you say as you return to slicing the carrots.

* * *

The day you say his name does come, eventually, and it’s not as though you never saw it coming.

You’re sitting on the grass, fingers entangled within the thin blades as you glare at Chan who walks over to you with the sausages he had just grilled. He takes your frown as an indication that you weren’t very excited about his sudden need to have a barbecue outside where it was  _very_  cold (apparently it was life or death for him).

“If you’re acting extra cute to convince me to go inside,” he slowly lowers himself to take his place right next to you on the grass, “it’s almost working.”

“No it’s  _fine,_ ” you sigh, dragging out the word ‘fine’ excessively to watch the fog escape from your breath. “I like looking at the trees, I guess.” Actually, you did like the trees, the naked branches did more for you than the blossoming vibrancies of spring. But you liked Chan more, as cheesy as it was.

“You’re only freezing cause you haven’t zipped your jacket up.”

Before you’re able to look down and do it yourself, Chan crawls in front of you, taking both ends of your jacket and doing the zipper up easily. It’s always these types of things that get you going. When he carefully debones the chicken before giving it to you, when he brings you home your favourite bubble tea without you asking, when he combs through your hair in the morning to untangle the ends. You could make a list of all the small sweet things he did for you and that could double as the list of why he  _has_  to be your soulmate.

Once your jacket is zipped all the way up, Chan’s fingers linger a little bit, skin ghosting just under your chin and you watch the way his sweet smile blooms across his lips, thinking that your cheeks looked fuller (and cuter) when you were bundled up and warm. 

Without meaning to, without really thinking, your voice lowers to a whisper, barely a gust of air leaving your throat when you open your mouth to say, “ _Chan_.”

His heart reacts immediately and you hold his gaze for a fraction of a moment before he doubles over, facing the ground. The hand that just held your zipper was now desperately clutching at his chest as his breathing turned jagged, like all the air was escaping from him. Your shock won’t even let you scream over what you had done so you sit up on your knees now, trying your best to hold him up by his shoulders. The only response you get from him is how his arm grips onto your elbow to keep himself from falling forward.

When you think you’ve done it, when you think you’ve actually killed him, your hearing completely blinded by your aching sobs, Chan’s inhale suddenly splits through the noise and you see him regain control of his own breathing. The grip he has on you loosens as he lets go, able to support himself on his own. 

Chan slowly looks up, a dumb chuckle barely making it past his lips, and even with bloodshot eyes from the sudden cardiac arrest, his smile never falters. Finally, you’re able to release the breath you were holding, the reality of it all only settling now.

Not only is your soulmate the only one that can say your name without killing you, but every single time they call your name, this unmatched wave of love, endearment, affection, and adoration merges together to coat your heart in a feeling of utmost security. You were the first to bear witness to such a tradition and it was undeniably the most beautiful tale that has ever come to life.

“Ten questions,” you say, voice still strained and gaze unmoving from his. “I’ll go first. How did you know?”

On his knees, he inches closer to you to place one hand behind your neck and the other to cup your cheek. You ignore the way his freezing fingertips sting on your skin. He brings his face closer to yours, his forehead leaning against your own so that the both of you were supporting each other in weight. In a voice that matches yours, quiet as though this limited distance was the only way you’d be able to hear him, he says, “I told you, it’s me.”


End file.
